


the kids aren't alright

by ang3lba3



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Edward Elric, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM elements, Crippling Guilt, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masochism, Neurodivergent Alphonse Elric, Neurodivergent Edward Elric, Neurodivergent Winry Rockbell, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Post-Promised Day, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Self destructive habits, Self-Harm, Uncomfortable Child Soldier Analysis tbh, ask for spoilers or additional tagging, dubcon is for RoyEd but the rape/noncon is NOT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-10-18 03:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20632232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3
Summary: Edward likes things to hurt a little. It wakes him up, steadies him, excites and calms his system simultaneously.  He has ALWAYS liked it. And maybe, maybe if he'd had a normal life, maybe if he'd been a normal kid, it wouldn't have turned into a giant fucking issue.But he doesn't get to be a normal kid. He doesn't get to have a normal life. So instead, it becomes the literal definition of a 'fucking issue'.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [EDIT: italics bug should now be fixed!]
> 
> Important TW info: This is NOT for people who are easily triggered. I'm going to be as thorough with the tagging as I can, but even just the first chunk of this fic is so full of things that I'm not sure I can catch them all. If you're unsure about reading, hit me up in the comments section with a specific question and I'll spoil whatever you want. If you notice something that you wish had been tagged - let me know that too!
> 
> Important AU info: Ed still has the automail + alchemy and still works for the military. Roy is not yet Fuhrer. A very significant change is that Hohenheim had Ed use him to return Al's body, rather than Ed giving up his gate. This is more Brotherhood oriented than anything else, but I'll absolutely be cherry picking canon with little regard to anything but ensuring there's internal consistency.

“Al?” Edward murmurs, hesitant, as if he doesn’t want to wake his brother. As if he doesn’t know his brother is perpetually awake, perpetually metal, perpetually_ trapped_.

“Yes, brother?”

Ed lets his eyes close, and his breath out. _No going back. _

Because… he can’t take it anymore. Al is starting to see it, he’s sure. And maybe, maybe if he gets it out, his wonderfully brilliant and perceptive brother can make it _stop_.

“You… ever want someone to just hurt you?”

Al doesn’t answer immediately, and Ed winces when he realizes how, in trying to distance himself from the question, he’d made it too - of _course_ Al would wish someone would hurt him. Al probably wished someone _could _hurt him, that he could _feel _pain.

But Al is good, too good for him, and he doesn’t mention the massive faux pas Ed made.

“Do you?” he says instead, and Ed muffles a laugh in his pillow.

“I don’t know what to do about it, Al,” he admits.

They’re in a cheap hotel, and it’s filled with all the kinds of sounds cheap hotels acquire at night. Ed amuses himself by counting the number of times he can hear their neighbor’s headboard slapping against the wall. 

He reaches an impressively vigorous thirty before the heavy weight of Al’s gauntlet wraps around his ankle.

“Me neither.”

***

Edward becomes—he isn’t sure if he can call it ‘careless’. Mustang’s face turns an impressive shade of purple-red and calls it ‘reckless’, but Ed has never been so calculated in his _life_. He'd put less work into trying to raise the dead.

He knows Alphonse notices, that he sometimes lets a fight Ed is ‘losing’ go on a little longer when he could have stopped it. That he waits a little longer than he used to before forcing Ed into a hospital. That he keeps quiet when Ed says he is allergic to local anesthetic, just stares down at the floor with body language that Ed likes to call inscrutable so he can pretend he doesn’t know it’s confusion and fear.

The thing is, it isn’t _just_ about the pain. He can and does hurt himself easily in private.

It’s about riding that edge of danger, about scraping out of something _just barely just barely next time maybe not at all, _about feeling alive when everything in him is dead and rotting and so, so,_ so scared. _

***

Then Al’s back in his body, and Ed is down a Father made of a Philosopher’s Stone and up a brother whose _justified_ rage he can’t give less of a shit about. Al’s back, and the goddamn stone is gone and away from people who would use it to hurt, and if there was anything ever worth using it for it’s _Al_.

He doesn’t even mean to tell Al about it, but he’s beat to hell and back and drugged despite his best attempts to stop it and he just sort of…

Al will forgive himself for profiting from the pain and death of half a civilization, eventually, because Winry and Granny won’t give him a choice and the literal blame was on Ed and Hohenheim. He’ll forgive Hohenheim, because all he ever really wanted was a father that cared. Shit, someday, when he’s old and his memories start going, when nostalgia creeps into his joints along with the arthritis, he might even forgive _Ed_.

Until then, the numbness in Ed’s chest spreads to his limbs no matter how many cuts he puts on them, and he fights, and he fights, and he fights, and for once-

For once, Al isn’t there to stop him when he goes too far.

***

The thing is.

The thing is-

If Al were here, he’d have never let Ed report in today.

He would have taken one look at the white knuckled grip of Ed’s hand on his coffee mug, and the pressed-thin lips, and the strands and chunks hanging messily out of his brother’s braid, and he would have sent him back to bed.

There were some days that Ed was not allowed to see the Colonel.

Now, there is no one to stop him from seeing the Brigadier General.

***

“Mustang,” Ed sneers, and his body_ itches_, and he can’t begin to comprehend why he’s - yet a-fucking-gain - trying to get into a fight with his superior officer. Does he want a court martial? To be put in front of a firing squad? Sent to a maximum security prison that would only hold him until he got bored enough to get out, or kill himself, or kill someone else?

“Fullmetal,” Mustang says, and doesn’t comment on the insubordinate tone or form of address.

It makes Ed want to_ scream_.

Maybe it’s his own fault. Maybe his childhood temper has numbed Mustang to the point where he won’t respond to a serious challenge now.

Ed throws himself into a chair, just hard enough that it screeches deep scratches across the wooden floor, not hard enough that it collapses under him or flips over. It’s a skill, an _art_, really, and he’s a master.

“Your report is… missing some crucial information. I thought that perhaps a verbal report would help jog your memory.” Mustang makes no comment on the spelling, or his handwriting, or the entirely dry but somehow still sticky stains. He doesn’t mention that it’s written on thin notebook paper rather than the official cardstock form. Ed hisses through his teeth in frustration. He’d spent an hour making it illegible.

“Fuckin’ told you everything I was comfortable having written down.” Ed stares just to the left of Mustang’s actual face, because God knows what he’ll do if he sees how punchable it is.

“Then _tell_ me what you didn’t want to write down. It doesn’t need to be recorded, but I do need to know my subordinates’ whereabouts.”

Ed gives up trying not to look at Mustang when he’s filling his peripheral vision, and shifts his gaze to the ceiling. He can’t stare down at the floor, it would be too much like shame. Ceiling staring usually looks like exasperation. There’s some kind of pun to make there about moral high ground, Ed’s sure.

“The Ore Alchemist is enjoying some quality time communing with the Earth.”

Mustang pauses, like he isn’t sure what word to pick out there that can unravel the truth from the euphemism.

“About twenty feet into the Earth, I think. Last I checked, he was in the forest just east of his family home.”

“Edward,” Mustang says, and there’s something shaky in that voice that makes Ed’s hackles rise and his eyes snap to Mustang’s.

He can’t remember the last time the General said his actual goddamn name.

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” Edward snaps. This, _this _is what he took issue with? Killing? It’s the only thing they’ve ever had in _goddamn common. _ The only thing that Mustang would push for and Edward would refuse! “It was faster than he deserved to go, and if you’d seen what he was doing to those little girls, you would have spread his ashes in the goddamn river. What’d you expect, huh? You didn’t _turn_ me into a weapon, I did that a long time before you showed up, but you never had a problem fuckin’ _using_ it before. Is it only a problem when I’m pulling my own trigger? Fuckin’ hypoc-”

“Edward,” Mustang says, and there’s steel in his voice now.

Edward shuts up, fuming. He hadn’t realized he was standing, but he is, hands planted on the desk, leaning in close enough to Mustang that he can smell his breath. Burnt coffee stench, not that he's surprised, but some part of him expected - something exotic. Attractive. Fundamentally different from his own.

Emotions play out in the corners of Mustang’s eyes, and Ed’s known the man for over half his goddamn life, and he still can’t read a fuckin’ thing in them.

“You’re on leave, two weeks, starting immediately.”

Edward rears back, automail foot connecting with the chair behind him, cracking the wooden leg. He barely registers it.

“The fuck?!”

Mustang begins pulling out what Ed _ thinks _ are paid vacations forms. He’s never taken a vacation and certainly never filled out a request, yet _ somehow _ these were on hand just waiting for a commanding officer’s signature. Said commanding shithead’s about to sign when Edward rips them off the desk and crumples them into a ball. Mustang stares at him, unfazed, but the spark of something - _ something - _in his eyes.

“You can’t do that for every set in Central Command. There’s the medical leave forms if you refuse to take the vacation.”

“See if the fuck I can’t!” Ed yells, and he tries hard not to - not to what, he doesn’t know, but he’s trying so hard he’s _shaking_ with the intensity of it.

“You haven’t been on any leave besides medical in over three years, Fullmetal, and it’s clear that you need it,” Mustang says, impervious to the way Ed’s a second from breaking down and begging. “Reconnect with the world, and not just the parts I send you to because there’s been a horrible crime. See your family. Go _home."_

Ed’s shoulders hunch forward _(hasn’t Mustang noticed how Al and Winry never visit, how the business charging for automail repairs is Rockbell but the attending physician signs with ‘Leeman’ and the office is in Central)_, and he drops the leave papers on the ground, rounds the desk so he can pull Mustang up by his collar and look him in the face.

“You can’t do this to me,” he says, and his voice is more desperation than anger. “You don’t understand, I need this, I need to keep going, I need to-”

Mustang doesn’t pry free, just stares at him with those calculating eyes.

“I’ve let this go on far longer than I should have,” he says, and it’s so quiet that Ed wouldn’t hear it if he couldn’t feel the words breathed across his skin.

“Let what go on?” Ed doesn’t show his fear, but he shows his confusion, his frustration. It seems almost superfluous to be holding onto the stiff collar, with Mustang not spitting fire back at him, but when he tries to unbend his fingers they won’t. He hopes it seems furious instead of clingy.

Mustang reaches up a hand, tugs gently on one of the large chunks hanging loose from the braid.

“You’re falling apart, Edward,” he says, and his voice is so gentle that Ed can’t stand it, he needs to make him _stop talking, _but he keeps going, and it’s- “You need to rest, or I’m afraid of what you’ll-”

Ed cuts him off there, and normally he’d punch the shit out of Mustang’s face but the angle is bad for it and there’s really only one other way to shut him up so he - kisses him.

It’s hard, and inexperienced, and Ed doesn’t know what the_ fuck _he’s doing, because the people he’s tried stuff with before hardly were interested in putting their _tongue _in his mouth. Not when there were so many other things they could put inside. Fuck, “tried stuff _with” _ made it sound a hell of a lot more two sided than it was-

Mustang groans into the kiss after a second of frozen shock, and the hand on Ed’s hair tangles, pulls mercilessly to bring him in closer. Ed’s mouth falls open at the pain, and he keens, high in his throat, knees dropping him to the ground.

The kiss was unfamiliar, but this, being between someone’s spread legs, dark eyes looking down at him, is not.

He rips Mustang’s fly open like it’s a personal offense. Mustang’s entire body jerks like he’d been electrocuted, a sharp, heavy gasp leaving him.

“Ed-” he gets out, just barely. Ed’s on fire, he is_ alive,_ and he’s had sex before _(and the voice that refused to categorize those experiences as ‘sex’ based on a technicality needed to shut the fuck up) _but being on his knees has never been as brutally satisfying as it is now. It’s never felt-

Ed finally manages to pull Mustang’s pants down enough that he can get to the good part, and he moans shamelessly as he laps his tongue over Mustang’s growing hardness through his underwear. That he doesn’t have a full erection yet is a shame, but Ed finds himself enjoying it, the throbbing pulse underneath his tongue, the way Mustang writhes like he can’t help himself.

He’d never - all the times that he’d imagined this, he hadn’t imagined being the one in control. He’d never been on his knees and felt this much _power _except when he’s setting off an array. It’s heady, intoxicating.

The boxers are down next, and finally, fuck, _finally,_ Mustang’s cock is in his mouth. It’s thick and long and growing by the millisecond and Ed suddenly understands every single rumor that he’s ever heard about Mustang in bed.

“Ride of a lifetime,” he murmurs, lips pressed against the head of Mustang’s cock as he does, and the vibrations and wet hint of tongue make Mustang _whine. _

“Slut,” Ed mocks, not as harsh as he’d wanted, and it makes Mustang wince away and get harder at the same time.

Ed laughs up into Mustang’s face, and tries to ignore the severely uncomfortable tightness in his own pants. There’ll be time for that, when he isn’t admiring the adorably befuddled look on his C.O.’s face.

He wraps a hand around Mustang’s dick, pumps slowly, firmly, just enough pressure and not enough speed.

“Well, old man?” he challenges, and he reaches up, tightens Mustang’s fingers in his hair until it hurts again, the sensation sending electricity down his spine. “You gonna fuck my face or do I gotta do all the work?”

Something in Mustang’s lust drunk eyes clears at that. He tries to untangle his fingers, a lost cause. But Mustang is practically a patron fucking saint of lost causes, so he tries harder, yanking his hand up. It doesn’t work, Ed being dragged right up with it by the roots of his hair. He _ keens_, hand dropping from Mustang’s dick to reach for his own crotch, just a second, just a second to alleviate the pressure because god it's _good- _

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps out, and he’s barely coherent. “Slap me, hit me, c’mon, please, Mustang,_ please just hurt me-” _

The hand in his hair rips free, and Ed falls onto his back, is so on edge from it that he can’t see straight, groaning deep in his chest and hips pushing up into his own hand.

“W-what are you,” and through the sheer need to _come, _Edward can hear the concern in that voice, and it makes his head clear just enough that he can stop humping the air like a dog and stare through lust fogged eyes up at Mustang.

“Wuh,” Ed slurs, half drunk on it, scalp still stinging, unable to make out much of Mustang’s face beyond the shape of it and the fact that it_ should be much closer to him, thank you._ “Get t’ fuck ‘ere.”

Instead, Mustang stands, backs away, and he almost trips on his dumbass dress trousers because he apparently forgot they were around his thighs. The sight of Mustang moving _away _makes Edward prop himself up on his elbows, watch with narrowed eyes more black than gold.

“You’re not… this…” Mustang is holding his pants up with one hand and failing miserably at the basics of a zipper and button. “Edward, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Edward laughs, spreads his legs, invincible. He’d held Mustang’s cock in his mouth, he’d admitted to burying a man he was supposed to arrest, he’d called Mustang a _s__lut_ and the bastard had _ liked it- _

“Then don’t,” he says, and beckons, rolls his hips suggestively, and Mustang’s tongue darts out to lick his lips and _fuck_ how long had he wanted Edward, how long could they have been _doing this- _

“Ed,” Mustang says, and it’s broken, distressed. Edward _almost_ backs down, because that tone of voice - it’s not what he wanted, it feels bad, the power turns sour on his tongue, but the next second Mustang's crushing Ed to the floor so it’s. It’s okay.

“Oh, god,” Edward chokes out, fingers scrabbling to hold onto Mustang’s back. “I’ll, fuck, I’ll put it back after, don’t worry, just let me-”

He presses his fingertips together and then presses them down on Mustang’s back, and the cloth splits open. Mustang isn’t to be beat even if he has the laws of physics in the way, and within moments Ed’s red coat is pressed into the ground beneath him and his tank top is thrown across the room.

Mustang presses a kiss to Ed’s mouth that burns. Ed would suspect him of alchemy because no one should be able to make his body feel this good without some kind of help, but maybe this is just what happens when it’s with someone you _want,_ not someone meticulously selected for how _disgusting _you would feel afterward-

“Please, please, please,” Ed’s chanting, or he thinks he might be, but his blood is roaring in his ears and all he can hear is the slide of fabric as Mustang’s pants come off.

Edward rips his own left glove off, desperate to feel skin on skin, wrenching his flesh fingers with a jolt of unexpected discomfort that makes him hiss into Mustang’s mouth. There’s almost too much going on to get all of it in his goddamn head, it’s seated in his stomach and his dick and his throat and it’s so good he could_ cry. _

“So good, so good,” someone says, and for a second Ed thinks it’s him, but no, it’s Mustang, pressing too soft bites and kisses down his throat. Ed’s fingers claw into Mustang’s back, the automail leaving bruises probably, the nails scratches. “God, Ed, you’re_ good.” _

And that goes against everything - _everything _\- he knows, but it feels so fucking amazing to hear someone say it that Ed almost comes. He groans, slamming his foot so hard into the floor he hears a suspicious metallic grind.

He doesn’t dare stop touching Mustang. The fucking idiot might make some kind of reasonable argument and _stop. _So instead he flips them. It’s easy, fucking easy, because Mustang isn’t a slouch but Ed’s got muscle and metal and constant fieldwork on his side.

Ed unzips a pocket on his pants, pulls out the small bottle of lube and string of condoms. They won’t need that many, probably, they’re not in an ideal place to go more than one round even if it is past time everyone else in this part of Central Command is gone. Even Riza clocked out, and Ed only showed up because he figured the lazy bastard would have gone home already.

He tosses the items on the floor within easy reach, claps his hands together and deconstructs his poor leather pants into a small ball and throws it across the room. Something glass shatters and falls over, but it isn’t a window, so Ed doesn’t give a fuck.

Mustang’s still winded, eyes wide, watching Edward like - like - shit, Ed doesn’t even know, like he _matters _or something, it makes his blood boil and his dick twitch and his stomach wind itself up into a little knot. It’s not _r__ight, _is what it is.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” Ed tries to snarl it but it breaks apart weirdly in his mouth and comes out pathetic and pleading.

“Ed,” Mustang says, and puts a hand around the back of Ed’s neck, draws him down into a kiss that’s so tender it makes Ed whimper for no fucking reason at all. The bastard’s hand wraps around Edward’s dick, and Ed moans, thrusting into the uncomfortable tunnel that Mustang’s firestarter glove makes. He doesn’t know why it didn’t get taken off, but fuck is he_ glad. _

Edward pulls back from the kiss, resting his forehead on Mustang’s because he doesn’t have the goddamn power to pull away from him more than that. If he keeps his lips on Mustang’s too much he’s going to come like a firecracker with a thirty second fuse, so he talks to distract himself.

“Stole a pair of these once from you. You tossed ‘em off like nothin’ cuz they were wet and who else could figure how to use ‘em ‘sides me or Al, and,” Ed’s breath hitches when Mustang rubs his thumb across the head of his dick, fights coming with a shudder that tears through his entire body. “Fuck, fuck, I, jerked off w’ ‘em ev’ry night until they, oh my _god, Mustang.” _

Because Mustang _ lives _ to make Ed’s life difficult, he starts using his other hand. One steadily, slowly driving Edward mad on his cock, the other tracing back to cup his balls. The skin is so much more sensitive back there, impossibly so, almost as impossible as how horribly _gentle _Mustang is being with him.

“No, y’ gotta fuck me, can’t come like this,” Edward begs, entire body shaking with the effort of not exploding into a million pieces all over Mustang’s dumb floor and dumb abs and dumb muscled chest.

Mustang lifts his body up with his core, hand tightening on Edward’s dick rhythmically until Edward is crying out,_ screaming, _leans into Ed’s ear and says deep and low and commanding, “You’ll do what I want, Fullmetal.”

Ed gives the_ fuck _up. He makes a noise he has never made in his _life,_ a sobbing sort of wail that spoke of complete defeat.

The world goes kind of white after that, everything pulsing and good and separate. He feels like atoms, like spacedust, like if he could just stay there forever then he’ll always be happy, even if he can’t quite recall what the hell he was so unhappy about.

He comes to lying on top of Mustang, small moans on the last edge of every breath, Mustang’s hands glove free and stroking Ed’s hair.

“Are you alright?” Mustang asks, seeming to sense that Edward is sentient again. Edward can’t answer, can’t move, and another minute passes before Mustang asks again. Ed realizes he must have just been laying there and petting Ed and asking over and over.

Fuck, this is. Pathetic.

“W’snt how was s’posed to go,” he finally gets out, words slurred. He feels like he’s been beaten, but not in the usual way he does after sex. More the emotional and intellectual satisfaction of losing a good sparring match. The faint promise of a challenge to do better at next time. The faint promise _of _a next time.

He’s always gotten exactly what he wanted when he went after someone before. He should have figured that of all people, Mustang would be the one least likely to be toyed around by Ed’s whims. After all, when’s the last time he’d beat Mustang at _anything, _much less something Mustang was as renowned for as _sex? _

“Are you alright?” Mustang asks, and there is a firmer edge in his voice this time, clearly expecting an answer.

Edward lets out a little huff of a laugh. He can just barely feel his lower half, but enough to tell that Mustang wasn’t poking him with an erection anymore. Shit, had he come while Ed had been half out of his mind? Had Ed being such an inexperienced goddamn idiot who could come from a single sentence turned him off?

“Never been fucking better, General,” he says, with just enough sarcasm to hide the honesty.

It isn’t the right response, and he knows it when Mustang starts manhandling him into a sitting position against the desk. Fuck, he can't believe the desk had been_ right there _and they'd messed around on the floor.

“Mustaaaang,” he whines, and he isn’t sure he’s ever actually taken that childish, wheedling tone of voice with his C.O. before, because it makes Mustang pause for a second before he finished getting Ed settled. 

It makes sense Mustang wouldn’t have heard him like this before. Whining isn’t exactly something he’s made a habit of unless he’s intoxicated enough to allow such shenanigans. Apparently Mustang’s body and two days with barely any sleep and the best orgasm he’s ever had left him with the same effect as too much whiskey. Whining under the influence. 

Mustang grabs his blue pants from where they’d been abandoned, and Ed admires his body as he slides them on still sitting down. Ed is pretty sure it’s usually less graceful than Mustang makes it look. Probably not as hard as when they’re leather and almost skin tight, though.

“You really need to go down a size if you can get those on over your boots,” Ed remarks, and stretches his own legs out, the boots and socks solidly still on his naked body. He feels like maybe he should feel more ashamed, or, or something. He’s pretty sure it’s going to happen soon whether he wants it to or not, anyways. No need to rush.

Mustang’s stomach is smeared with cum, and Edward can’t tell by the amount how many dicks had joined the occasion. Considering that he _ felt _like he’d come for hours, it could have been both or just Ed.

Once somewhat clothed, Mustang settles across from Ed, and stares him firmly in the face. Ed cringes in on himself - he knows that look. Before tonight, it was the look that Ed knew best on his commanding officer’s face, self righteous and stern. But now it settles on Mustang’s face like a particularly ugly plastic mask, false and rigid. 

Fuck, here it goes.

“This will not happen again,” Mustang says. Edward rolls his eyes because he’d half expected it and because like_ fuck_ he wouldn’t do everything he could to get this again. Mustang’s hand darts out, grips Edward’s flesh wrist. “No, _listen_ to me, Edward. This was a mistake. It was incredibly inappropriate. We could get arrested for this.”

Edward laughs at that. “I’d like to see the brass try. The hypocrisy might actually give some of ‘em a stroke. Fuck, they’ll probably be more pissed that you got to tap it without pullin’ rank or threats.”

Mustang’s eyes harden, and so does the rest of his face, but the hand on Edward’s wrist turns gentle.

“That’s happened before?”

Ed shrugs, hiding how uncomfortably aware he is of what he’d revealed. “Fuck, you know how the military works Mustang, every secretary and female officer’s got a stor-”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Ed thunks his head back against the desk and stares at the ceiling. The drawer handles were digging into his skin, into the bruises he’d gotten from god knows where. Some wildly irrational part of him hopes they were from Mustang, which is unlikely. The ceiling offers no answer of what to _do,_ and the orgasm is starting to fade except for the occasional aftershock. The drunkenness of the moment stays his limbs but not his loosened tongue and softened mind.

“Shit, Mustang,” he says, and his voice is tired. “You ever hear of afterglow? Pillow talk?”

“I assaulted a subordinate when he was in a fragile mental state,” Mustang barks. Ed’s neck snaps down to stare at him when he uses the word ‘assaulted’, but before he could even _begin _to address that Mustang continues. “And apparently, I haven’t been the first officer to do so.

“I severely regret my actions, and the effect that they will no doubt have or have already had on you. You _will_ be taking that leave, and if at any time you would like to make a report regarding this event or any others, I encourage that you do so. I'll sign off on any transfer you ask for, no questions asked.”

Mustang looks like he's gearing up to say more, but Edward cuts him off with an outraged squawk. “Transfe-_Assault?! _ You think you could do anything to me that I didn’t _want you to_, even disregarding the fact that I made the first move by shoving your dick in my mouth?! The hell do you think I am!”

“I think you’re_ sick,_ Edward!” Mustang shouts, matching him in volume. “This isn’t - this wasn’t normal! I hurt you, and you begged me to do it again, and harder. I’ve half a mind to call your brother and demand he tell me how long this has been going on.” His voice curdles the air it touches. “But when I look past my own willful ignorance, I can see that it’s been for _far_ too long.”

Edward recoils at that, staring at Mustang. He… it’s not that he doesn’t _ know _he’s a messed up freak but to hear it so plainly from, from-

He laughs, because it’s that or start crying.

“What, Mustang, you never spanked a girl and had her call you Daddy?” his voice is mocking but choked, a bare shadow of what it would usually be. “’cuz I’ve heard stories. You sick in the head too? Ms Eliza and Gennie and Renee all sick? Or is it just because you want to get rid of me?”

Mustang’s face twists with equally affronted shock, mouth moving like a fish outta water. Ed doesn’t give him the time to reply.

“I’m a liability now, huh? Always have been the child soldier_ you _enlisted with no parents and no chaperons and all the responsibility for my well being on your shoulders as you sent me into battle zones. And now I’m all grown up and queer and sucked your cock, and if you’re gonna be Fuhrer then a woman on her knees for you is no big deal, but me? That looks bad, doesn’t it. Because who knows when this started. Who knows what you did when I was a kid to make me this way, because the People’s Alchemist isn’t a goddamn _faggot-” _

Mustang’s face had grown steadily more horrified, nauseated, as Edward’s speech grew a hysterical, bitter tinge, breath coming faster, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“-the People’s Alchemist is gonna settle down with some nice girl he saves from impending doom, have two point five children and a picket fence in the country and a dog, shit, Mustang, I don’t even_ like dogs! _I can’t-”

_ “Edward.” _By the look on his face when Edward meets his eyes, Mustang must have been saying it for a while. Ed can barely hear him over the rushing in his ears.

“The fuck you want?” Ed spits, pressing his palms into his eyes to stop the tears.

“Put some clothes on, then we’ll talk.” Mustang dumps Ed’s clothes in his lap, and Ed jerks in surprise before following the order. He’d honestly kinda forgot he was naked.

He doesn’t usually roll over this easy even when it’s sensible, but if it means he doesn’t have to listen to Mustang spout ridiculous commands and himself say fuckin’ hideous, monstrous truths he didn’t share with goddamn _anyone- _

It’s probably worth it.

The transmutation is simple for his pants, he barely has to think as he does it, the array familiar as the back of his hand at this point. Then it’s just rote movement, trying not to wince at the strained muscles in his back and abdomen from where he’d tensed trying not to come, the strain in his thighs though he hadn’t even been fucked. His entire body wiggly, exhausted, too long from the last cup of coffee or hour of sleep to deal with any more bullshit.

Mustang faces the door as Ed dresses, wearing his stupid jacket and shirt even though they’re still split open with alchemy. Ed rolls his eyes, touches his hands together quietly, and presses them onto Mustang’s back. The other man flinches away at the contact like it hurts, and the fabric weaves back together so cleanly it could have never been cut.

“We going somewhere?” Ed asks, stepping away and glancing around the room for anything he’d missed. Most of the mess had gotten on Mustang, and a few things were kinda broken, but he’s too tired to deal with those. He spots the lube and condoms on the floor and makes a face, picking them up and shoving them in his pocket. Leaving those there for anyone to find (and by anyone he meant Hawkeye, because she was in here more than Mustang fucking was) sounded…

Terrifying. Possibly life threatening. Too small a chance of ‘hilarious’ to try for.

“Yes, we’re going somewhere,” Mustang says, rolling his shoulders like he could roll off the phantom touch of Ed’s hands. Like it was something slimy, insidious.

Ed swallows convulsively, trying not to throw up.

“You need to be somewhere I can keep an eye on you while I work out how to deal with… _this.” _The disgust is evident in his voice.

Disgust for himself probably. Disgust that he would touch Edward Elric. A subordinate, a man, a child he’d frankly had a large hand in raising, someone in an ‘emotional crisis’. A cripple, more than two-thirds scars and the rest metal, someone who’d been used like a piece of tissue blowing out of an alley.

Ed can pick any number of reasons and they’d probably apply. He isn't excited to find out which is troubling Mustang most, which he couldn’t deal with once the sweat cooled. 

They head out the door, flicking off lights as they go, and it’s quiet between them. Probably a strained and heavy silence on Mustang’s end, but Ed is too deep in his own thoughts to notice.

He’d done it. He’d fulfilled his (almost) life long dream of having sex with Roy Mustang, had the best orgasm of his life, got to taste what it was like to kiss someone he’d been in love with since he was too young to grasp the_ concept_ of sex or romance beyond heterosexual procreation and fathers who walked out the door and left a grieving wife to wish for him on her deathbed-

And this is the aftermath.

As he buckles himself into Mustang’s car, he thinks about the irony of him getting exactly what he wished for. There's always a price, isn't there? _That _ is the concept his life is built on: equivalent exchange. But sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. A life for a life - Hohenheim’s for Al’s - should have been equivalent. And there was no price he wouldn’t pay to see Al in his own goddamn skin again, but… Al _hating_ him…

A soul’s worth cannot be calculated. Ed knows that much. But a heart’s?…

“Mustang?” he asks over the rumble of the engine as they turn down streets he doesn’t bother to note.

Mustang gives an affirmative, inquiring noise, even as his shoulders tense.

“They said it gets better, you know. Don’t ask me who, I won’t remember, but just… people. They said it gets easier, just wait until you get older, until you’re independent.” Ed snorts, draws an absent array in the window fogged by his breath before wiping it away. “But that’s not true. I’ve been independent for… fuck, eight years now. Not even Al with me. Live on my own, I’m almost a quarter of a century old, I’ve got a career and paparazzi and no friends to fuck up that independence thing… but it’s not better.

“I always thought it sounded like bullshit. What would I be trading for life to suddenly become ‘better’? Childhood? I haven’t had a childhood in a decade and a half.

“Equivalent exchange, Mustang… maybe I was wrong about what that meant. Maybe it isn’t just about the literal value of what you want. Maybe it’s about… how bad you want it.”

The car pulls to a stop, but Edward hardly notices. Mustang’s eyes on him are sharp, glinting in the streetlight.

“You think that’s it? I want something for so long, for so much, of course the price is gonna be more than I can take.”

Mustang doesn’t say anything, and Ed’s breaths come slow and heavy in his lungs. It’s almost too much effort to keep breathing, but he can't imagine stopping on purpose. That's another price, maybe.

“Come inside, Edward,” he says, and steps out of the car.

Edward does. Why not, right?

***

Mustang leads him inside the small house, and Edward isn’t sure at first who it belongs to. He can’t imagine why Mustang would take him to someone else’s house, but he can _definitely_ not imagine why he would take Ed to his _own _house. Wasn’t the whole point of ‘never doing this again’ that everything went back to normal? That things didn’t change?

“Whadya think I’m gonna do outta your sight, Mustang?” Ed asks idly, kicking off his boots so he doesn’t track dirt onto the clean floors. He’s sure some maid works very hard on keeping them spotless with a pig like Mustang living here. “I’ve kept bigger secrets than you.”

Mustang sighs but doesn’t answer, heading down the hall. “Coffee?” he calls over his shoulder.

Ed groans, deep and guttural and pleased, trails after him into a kitchen. “Yes, please.”

He isn’t even aware of how sexual it could be considered until he sees Mustang’s hand frozen on the bag of coffee grounds.

“Not gonna _ assault _you because you offered me caffeine, General,” Ed snaps, sick of the flinching already. “I’ve been up more'n two days, that’s all.”

“So add sleep deprived to the list,” Mustang says, lowly enough that he likely assumes Ed won’t hear. Ed does, sits at the kitchen table and glowers.

“I’m not concerned about you ruining my reputation, Ed.” Mustang’s hands are sure now, steady as he makes the coffee. Ed realizes belatedly that they’re bare, wonders where Mustang tucked the gloves he’d used to jerk him off. But even if he could snatch them, he isn’t sure he’d ever be able to use them and not cry about how goddamn awful the rejection after has been. And it’s obviously only going to get worse.

“The hell else is there to be concerned about?” Ed asks, and he can’t just keep staring at Mustang’s bare hands or something very unfortunate is going to happen in his pants with his most misbehaving body part. He heads to the nearest cabinet and tugs it open.

Plates and cups. Damn.

“Masochism, on its own, is not sick. Neither is sadism, in some forms.”

Ed hums in acknowledgment that Mustang is having some kind of teaching moment, and opens another cabinet. Glassware and alcohol. He considers the alcohol for a moment because at least it has calories, but he figures if he got drunk this close to Mustang there’s no telling what he’d do. What he’d do, again.

“You are not masochistic.”

Edward rolls his eyes at that, a teasing and almost sultry tone in his voice when he responds. “You _sure_ about that, General?”

Mustang takes a deep breath, switches the flip on the coffee maker to on. He doesn’t turn to face Edward. “You are self mutilating, Edward. Masochism does not lend to the kind of scars on your arm and leg, or being deliberately harmed in a fight, or avoiding the hospital until you keel over from a blood infection.”

Ed’s mouth sets in a hard line, and he stomps his way to the icebox, because there’s gotta be like, juice or something in there at least. He opens it to see cold cut meat and cheese, and when he glances to the counter on his left there’s a breadbox.

“Bingo,” he says triumphantly, pulling out the food. “Hey, you got any mustard?”

“For fuck’s - Edward, I am trying to have a_ discussion_ with you here!” Mustang covers his face with his hands, sharp breaths caught by his palms, fingers curling tight into his dark hair. Ed tries to remember what Mustang’s hair feels like, can’t. He isn’t sure he even got to touch it.

It fucking _ wasn’t supposed to go like that, _ and _ goddamn _he’s tired. Tired enough to do anything just to make this… this fuckin’ nightmare end.

“Let me make a sandwich, and the coffee can finish, and we can sit down, and I’ll…” Ed gnaws on the inside of his cheek, trying to think of what he’s willing to offer here. That awful little hunch in Mustang’s shoulders settles it, because it’s making him nauseous. “I’ll talk. I’m not goin’ on fuckin’_ leave,_ but I’ll talk if it’s so goddamn important to you.”

_ (but maybe the real reason he’ll talk is because he can’t stand keeping it in any longer, needs to tell someone before he fucks it all up_ real _good. maybe the real reason is that he’s scared next time he goes on a mission, he won’t come back.) _

Some days he thinks Mustang holds the world on his shoulders, braces it up like Atlas, tense and proud straight lines despite their desire to hunch up or slump down. That he could be the cause of Mustang huddling into himself is worse than waking up in a hospital with Hawkeye staring him straight in the eye like she’d_ known _the second he would open them. It’s a kind of uncanny - unbalancing and improbable and _ wrong _\- he doesn’t have words for. That he has too many words for.

The sandwiches get finished, despite Mustang refusing to answer as to where the mustard is. Then Ed’s ushering Mustang into a chair, somehow finding himself - in charge? No, not quite. But something. Something that gives him enough leverage to fix a cup of coffee the way Mustang likes it and fix two cups of coffee the way he likes it and set all the cups on the table and stare at his food as he realizes he doesn’t want it anymore.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Mustang asks, breaking the staring contest between Ed and his turkey sandwich.

“Fuckin’… 9, I think?”

“PM?” Mustang asks, but his voice says he knows better. If he’s still assuming Ed is referring to an hour and not a date, he does not know better.

Ed just shrugs.

“Eat your goddamn sandwich, Fullmetal.”

Ed does.

He inhales about half of it in twenty seconds, because he never remembers how hungry he is until he’s stuffing food in his face, or until he’s so dizzy he can barely stand. Then it's all, 'oh shit, whiskey and coffee does _ not _three days of calories make' again.

“So,” he says, once the first sandwich and a half are down and he can eat at a pace that allows speech. “I guess you wanna know when this started, probably.”

Mustang just temples his fingers, elbows on the table, stares at Ed. Ed laughs, because he looks so _ pissed _ and it’s ridiculous.

“Yeah, yeah. So… fuck, I was probably - I don’t even know. Seven? Maybe? Coupla years after my dad left. I always got into fights as a kid, over nothing, little stuff. You could prob’ly’a guessed that. Never cared that much about my height or Al being mistaken as me, but it sure as hell gave me a reason to fuck someone up.

“I was a good fighter though. Had lots of practice. It got… boring. Winning in two punches or a solid kick before they could even retaliate. Made it look unfair too. Like I was some kinda bully when they fuckin’ goddamn well started it.

“Started letting myself - not lose. I don’t like losing. Just get roughed up a little more. Led them on, let ‘em get a good punch or two in and…

“It felt good.” Ed’s eyes go distant with the memories. He’d had headaches as a kid, vague health complaints that never really resolved into anything bad enough to complain over. Never anything bad enough he couldn’t compensate, just there, simmering, all the time. “Fuck, it felt good. The endorphins, I guess.”

He takes a halfhearted sip of his coffee. Mustang is staring at him like - like some kind of puzzle, not like a human being. It’s familiar. It’s comforting, in a way that probably just says even more how fucked the hell up Ed is.

“Me and Al got older, Mom died, all… that happened, and the fights got bigger. Had bigger consequences, had Al in most of them. But the armor meant… he couldn’t even feel pain, you know? So he was a better fighter in some ways than I could be, even when I wasn’t leading shit on. Started cutting but that just doesn’t… do it. Not properly.

“I was… musta been 13 by then. Years not having somet’in good to get me going. Al’s studying in the library, and I take a walk to get lunch. Cut through a back alley and some asshole’s there, says he wants my wallet or he wants my life, and when I tell him to fuck off he pins me to a wall and shoves me down and…”

Mustang doesn’t talk, but the analytical look is ruined slightly by the way his hands clasp together until the knuckles are white.

“I dunno why I let him do it.” Ed’s sandwich has been gone, gone for a while, and he puts his head in his hands so he can stare at the empty plate and not at Mustang's stupid hands. “Worst part was I liked it, too, or maybe not liked but, close enough, and he ended up knowing it. I beat his ass when he tried to get the wallet after, and not when he shoved his - yeah. So he knew.

“After that… I dunno. There are plenty of people out there who wanna do shit like that to someone like me. Lots of people you know, even.” Ed stares at the plate harder.

“The team-” Mustang starts, and his voice is. Unacceptable. 

“Fuck no,” Ed says quickly, honestly. “No. Not - not one of you, ever. I swear. I mean, when I got older it wasn’t like Havoc went blind, but shit, you know they’d never…”

“I did,” the loathing and self-flagellation is clear in Mustang’s voice. Great. Just what Ed wanted, to know what part of fucking him is going to put Mustang at the bottom of a bottle. 

“Anyways,” Ed says, skipping past the way that makes his stomach lurch, makes him want to throw the cup at Mustang’s head and get the hell out. “When Al - it got harder. Without him. He’d keep me in check, sorta. He didn’t know about the... sex, but he at least… the fights, and the, when I was alone, he could keep that balanced. Didn’t like it, but he knew it was. Knew… it kept me… functional.”

There is a long silence, and Ed drains his first cup of coffee, starts on the second.

He doesn’t look at Mustang.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says, finally, and he meets Mustang’s eyes. Because this has to be out there if Ed's ever gonna live with this. He's not going to get over it, but he can maybe live with it someday. “I want you to know - you weren’t like that. I wasn’t using you like that. If it was… I woulda said no, or struggled some or...not...”

Ed squeezes his eyes shut, can feel the tears coming. He stands up and turns to face the hallway to the living room. This is fucking pointless.

“Don’t feel guilty. It was me, alright? I started it, I practically - you didn’t want to and I_ know _those cues because I make them so they hurt me more to get it, but I kept going anyways. It was. It was so selfish, and I’m so sorry, but you can’t blame yourself for it, alright? I’ve wanted for so - I wanted, and I saw the opportunity and…”

Ed sobs a little, tries to stuff his hand in his mouth to disguise the sound. He’s never hit a high this good that crashed this hard, doesn’t even know why he came here. He was just still soft and compliant in any way that mattered to whatever Mustang wanted.

“Ed, I wasn’t…” Mustang’s voice comes from the table, and it has so much _pain _in it, and it’s all because Ed is a massive screw up who can’t deal with his emotions like a normal goddamn person and instead involves everyone else in his shitfuckery. “Ed, I wanted to. You didn’t force me into anything. You were going to let me stop, I could see it, and I couldn’t stand to, so I didn’t. I could have ended things before most of our clothes were off. Sooner, really.”

Ed lets out a loud sob that wracks his frame despite his best efforts, and then he’s crumpling to the ground on Mustang’s fuckin’ kitchen floor, sobbing like he’s going to die. Sobbing like after Al left, after his brother said all shocked and empty,_ I need space. A lot of space. I don’t think...maybe don’t call. Just. Space. Lots. _

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, senselessly, not even sure what he’s apologizing for. “You don’t know, it hurts, it hurts, I’m sorry-”

Mustang’s chair almost topples to the ground as he jumps out of it, and then his arms wrap around Ed. Ed clings to the lapel of his jacket for dear fucking _ life, _presses his face into Mustang’s neck even though he’s a snotty disaster. And instead of shoving him away like he _rightfully should_, Mustang pets clumsily at Ed’s hair with one hand while the other clutches him close. If Ed wasn’t crying this would be the closest to happy he’s been in years.

It might still be, actually.

***

The crying goes on longer than Ed will ever admit, and by the end of it he’s not even a person, just a lump of a broken body and machinery with a clogged nose and a headache.

Mustang can’t carry him, but he manages to get Ed on his feet and heading towards a couch, the biggest goddamn couch he’s ever fuckin’ seen, he wants one of _those_ whenever he bothers to stop living in the barracks between missions and gets an apartment.

He’s settled down onto it, and he curls up loosely on his side, limbs too noodly and weak to roll into the tight ball he prefers. He’s grown, yeah, but he’s still small enough that he takes up barely any space on the_ massive _couch, and he’s weirdly grateful for it. Just this once, just this quietly in his own head.

Mustang puts a blanket on him, and starts a fire in the grate, and then sits down on the coffee table next to him and just sort of… watches.

“Don’t leave,” Ed manages, his throat sorta-kinda-really raw from the noises ripped out of him. He's hit rock bottom tonight, might as well keep digging for gold. “Just stay.”

Mustang clears his throat, and Ed’s eyes are all gooey and blurry and already closing, so he can’t make out the expression on his face. Probably something heartbreaking and nauseating.

“I’ll stay,” he says and puts a hand in Ed’s hair again.

Ed smiles, just the tiniest bit, already more asleep than awake. “Th'nks, Colonel.”

*******

It’s.

It’s a lot to digest, Roy thinks, staring down at his hand in Ed’s hair. He hadn’t given it permission to be there.

Of course, he hadn’t given it permission to jerk Ed off on the floor of his office either, but that _ sure did happen. _

Ed’s sleeping peacefully by now, but when Roy tries to pull his hand away Ed whines and shifts with this tiny frown, so Roy just leaves it there.

All these years.

All these years, Ed was being-

And he was supposed to stop it. He was supposed to_ know. _

Ed may think that it was his choice, that he wanted it, but Roy knows that when a child wants to eat nothing but candy for an entire day_ you do not let them do that_. When a child wants to jump off a cliff because they believe they can fly, _you do not let them do that. _When a child walks into a back alley and lets someone rape them, when a child does it god only knows how many times, when a child is actively suicidal and hurting themselves body and soul, _you are supposed to notice and _**_not let them do that._ **

And you are not to, under any circumstances, no matter what age they are now or how good their ass looks or golden their hair,_ have sex with them _.

God, if Hughes was here, he’d put a knife between Roy’s ribs, and Roy would let him. At least Riza was here. She could put a bullet between his eyes and _would_ when she figures out what happened.

Maybe not at first, maybe not if she thinks it had just been sex between two consenting adults, even with the age difference and the power imbalance and all the other things that made it wrong. She might just put a bullet in his kneecap as a warning and request a transfer. But with all the - all the factors involved-

Roy is a dead man walking. It's just a matter of who kills him first, really: Riza, or himself.

Ed moves in his sleep, hand flailing out until it hits Roy’s knee, and then stays there as his body relaxes even further.

_ Don’t leave. Just stay. _

_ Thanks, Colonel. _

He hasn’t been a Colonel since Ed was 16. He wonders if that’s how Ed sees him, almost a decade ago when Roy felt nothing but platonic and nearly paternal emotions for him. At least he can say that. At least he can say that before Ed was 20 he’d never looked at him with anything but what was appropriate in the confines of their relationship and statuses. It had taken a couple years before Ed would call him anything but Colonel Bastard, but-

_ What, Mustang, you never spanked a girl and had her call you Daddy? _

Mustang closes his eyes and sighs, the hand on his knee a million pounds and the hand in Ed’s hair just as heavy. 

It isn’t like he's unfamiliar with ‘daddy issues’. He’d been orphaned himself at a young age, and raised in a brothel. He was intimately familiar with the ways it can skew your perception, shape your personality. But he supposes that he’s never seen abandonment, orphaning, and reunification with a topper of assisted suicide.

And looking back, it is hardly a surprise that Edward has a crush on him. Sure, Roy’d always been certain that Ed’s heart was set on the Rockbell girl, but there was a fire missing from his eyes in their interactions. They were softened, by what he had assumed was romantic love, but was now clearly more brotherly than anything.

_ -because the People’s Alchemist isn’t a goddamn _**_faggot_ ** _ \- _

Roy wants to throw up, thinking about that. Being gay - being gay is hard, harder than anything he’d wish on _Ed, _of all people_._ Being _bisexual _is hard enough and as much as he tries, he is nowhere near as in the public eye as Ed. It's frankly incredible that Ed’s managed this long without rumors spreading of his-

Amestris is mostly kind to ‘deviants’, if condescending and a little bit disgusting about their unnecessarily personal questions. But that is only if the ‘deviant’ in question is in a good part of the city, if they keep to their ‘own kind’ and don’t ‘push it in people’s faces’. If they're just another face in the crowd, willing to be seen as_ other_ and _lesser_. Maybe kind was a strong word, no matter what it’s like in Creta or Drachma.

A celebrity like Ed (because that’s what he is, as much as he’d love to deny it) would… The military_ alone,_ but add in the public eye-

Roy isn’t sure how much of an example can be made of someone with so much public goodwill and backing behind them.

He isn’t sure how much of that public goodwill and backing would disappear if Ed is outed. How betrayed the public would feel by their all Amestrian golden boy.

He doesn’t want to find out.

He takes a deep breath, checking that Ed is sleeping as he carefully maneuvers his way away from the young man. Edward doesn't stir, and so Roy heads down the hall to the phone. The clock on the wall says it's 2:30 AM. Feury had made this line as safe as possible for a high ranking military officer, but Roy still doesn’t trust saying much on it, and so he takes a moment to prepare what he should say. Nothing comes to mind. _Fuck it. _

Roy dials Riza’s number. She may hurt him, but she shouldn't kill him, no matter how much both of them may want it. If Ed is traumatized _now… _

And Ed needs someone to fix this for him. Someone to keep him safe. Al isn’t available, maybe never will be again, and Roy isn’t willing to chance his grudge and temper when being woken in the middle of the night. He'd assumed the brothers were at least cordial, but... that was obviously the latest in a long line of terrible assumptions. Riza, his partner in life, the only person he would trust with everything - that is who he needs.

The phone rings three times before it's picked up, in the space before the fourth.

“Sir?” Riza asks, hesitance in her voice at the guess, although no one else would call her at this hour. She’s probably had four hours of sleep, maximum.

God, he loves this woman. He wishes the tenor of it was different, on both their behalves. It would make life so much simpler.

“It’s me,” he says, and he hears his voice crack. He clears his throat, tries to get control of it. “It’s Ed.”

Riza’s breath sucks in harshly, terrified. “Is he-”

“He’s fine. Physically. Or… as fine as he ever is. Riza, he—some things were revealed to me tonight, and I’d. I’d very much appreciate it if you could come to my home and...”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Comfort him? Comfort Ed? Make a plan that could fix all of this?

“I’ll be there, sir.” Her voice is steady, and he clings to its certainty. “Anything else?”

“Be quiet when you come in, I’ll leave the door unlocked. He’s asleep on the couch, and could use the rest.”

“Of course sir. On my way.”

She hangs up without waiting for the awkward goodbye or any affirmation that Roy had heard her. Most likely for the best.

What the fuck would he do without her?

_ Crash and burn, sir. _

Roy manages to smile, despite it all, and stands to wait in the hallway. She lives ten minutes away, four minutes if she runs.

Riza runs.

***

Riza stares at him over the coffee mugs and sandwich crumbs still on the kitchen table, waiting.

She’d gone into the living room first, appraising Ed with her own eyes to make sure he was safe. It is no less than Roy expected. Edward occupies some kind of strange space between child, friend, and brother-in-arms in her mind, as he does with most of the team.

As Roy wishes he still did in his.

“I’m not going to hurt you if you tell me what happened, Roy.” Her eyes are steady, clear despite the red veins from sleep deprivation. “Don’t get a bigger head, but it’s been quite a while since we passed the point I would _actually_ shoot you.”

Roy drops his head onto the table at the words, relieved and disappointed.

“I almost wish you would shoot me,” he groans. “Then I wouldn’t have to figure out this mess.”

“You? Figure out a mess? And here I thought you’d called me.” Riza’s voice is amused, even with the undercurrent of concern.

“True,” Roy says with an attempt at a laugh. It comes out wrong. His face being mashed into the table probably doesn’t help.

“Sir,” she says, admonishing, prodding.

“Alright.” Roy sits up straight and looks her in the eyes, determined to take his punishment like a soldier. “Edward came into report about twenty minutes after you left…”

It comes out like that, in starts and bursts. He spares the details of the sexual encounter, merely summing it up as ‘at first he was too insistent for me to have stopped, but there was a chance for me to end it before it went - more than too far, and I didn’t take it’.

Riza’s face is unreadable when he tells her that, and he isn’t sure if that's just because he doesn’t want to see what is there or if she really is that good at hiding what she's feeling from him.

The accounts of Ed’s habitual self destruction are harder to pass along than the sex. One mistake is bad enough, but years of negligence…

Hawkeye can’t look at him as he tells her that Ed heavily implied several other members of the military had taken advantage of him, a hand pressed to her mouth as she struggles to breathe evenly.

“Every time I sent him out on a mission,” Roy says, and his voice cracks. “He… and we never even noticed.”

Riza reaches across the table and grabs one of Roy’s hands. Her fingers are sweating, shaking. Roy knows the feeling.

“Listen to me, Roy,” she says, and her jaw is set tight against the pain of discovery. “We failed him. We failed him badly. But we will _not do so again_. Whatever it takes, we will _fix this.” _

“Can we, Riza? He probably thinks he’s in - love with me,” Roy chokes on the words awkwardly, the first time they’ve been said and he doesn’t even fully think them first. Too many realizations play out on his face too fast, too many and_ Edward _and _in love_ in all of them.

“We need to talk to Al,” Riza says firmly, neatly stepping past the existential shitstorm that just happened to Roy. He grabs the goal like a lifeline.

“Who should we send? I mean - not that the team can know about…” he shakes his head. “Ed would never forgive us, much less _ believe _that Al’s not angry at him anymore. And Al wouldn’t stop being angry for anything less than the truth, which we are hardly qualified to give him.”

_ or worse, he would forgive you, because he’s in- _

“That’s…” Riza frowns. “That’s not a bad point.”

Overwhelmed, they stare at each other. It’s not as if they’re dealing with their own trauma in particularly healthy ways, or even know what dealing with trauma in a ‘healthy’ way means - Gracia had handled Maes’ death better than either of them.

_ “Gracia,” _ they say simultaneously. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to acknowledge the hell out of my beta erinpenwrite for helping me with this. Saying it wouldn't be as good without their input is an understatement - I don't think I'd be posting this for a couple more years at least without their incredibly thoughtful advice and meticulous tense fixing. While writing this story, I was mostly writing to myself. This came out of an incredibly difficult and personal place, and I don't think I would have had the confidence or courage to share it without them helping me polish it...and being INCREDIBLY enthusiastic about what was already there. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank the groupchat. meeting all y'all ... i was really in a pessimistic place about fandoms, and about my own fannish content. it rly helped me to find my joy in creating and SHARING those creations again.


	2. Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after, from several perspectives, including a few who don't realize it's a day after anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [morning after edit] Additional tags added this chapter: Neurodivergent Ed, Al, and Winry. ;) 
> 
> quick late night upload, may be small formatting errors (the italics bug for one) that I will fix in the next few days as i catch them! as always, if you have any tags or content you would have appreciated and think i need to add, or want spoilers before reading: im more than happy to jump into the comment section, or anons/dm's on tumblr (ang3lba3 there as well). 
> 
> this chapter is, in my opinion, less harsh. it's a bit of a breather before some more healing can happen... but it made my friend cry 2x reading it so take that with the grain of salt it deserves.
> 
> i also feel obligated to remind everyone again now though that this is a LONG road to a happy ship ending, and everyone has to heal first. heal a LOT. roy/ed is endgame but there's going to be quite a few obstacles to it, both internal and external. its mutual pining wrapped around trauma recovery.
> 
> a very quick reassurance that as far as external obstacles go, when we pass the internal ones: no one on Team Mustang or otherwise beloved (Al, Winry, Gracia, etc) has deeply held homophobic beliefs - their concerns or objections will always come from a place of caring deeply about Ed AND Roy. Roy's thoughts are pretty over the top and self loathing at times, but there's legitimate reasons to be concerned about Ed's agency and ability to consent to an equal healthy relationship with Roy. those will HAVE to be addressed later on, and it won't be easy on anyone. least of all me. DX

Alphonse wakes up. 

This happens every morning, and has for a while now. It’s funny, the things that you take for granted when you have a body. There’s this small writer’s club he likes to attend at the even smaller local library, and they’re so indignant when that’s how a story starts. They say things like,  _ that’s such a cliche. Everyone’s day has always begun with them waking up - you don’t need to  _ specify _ it! _

Al can’t explain to them why he does need to specify it, why it feels so magical to write those words or read them and know that they’re true. Even in his dreams, where he’s back in that horrible metal suit, where Brother is hurting himself and the world is burning- 

He wakes up. 

Alphonse wakes up this morning, and he has had no nightmares. There’s no need to clutch at the sheets, to gulp in the air gratefully, feeling-tasting-smelling. Instead he just enjoys the way his mouth is dry and awful tasting, the way sleep crusts in the corners of his eyes, the way the sheets pulled off the corner of the bed to leave him laying on the itchy mattress. 

Well. He doesn’t enjoy it  _ too _ long. It’s actually pretty unpleasant. 

And with that he’s up, up and out of the bed, up and stumbling to the bathroom - and his toe hits something, and he curses, and he gets that special little glee that accompanies these horrible proofs of his humanity - and starting his day.

***

Winry wouldn’t say it out loud, because she’s  _ grateful _ , so  _ grateful,  _ and it’s not like it bothers her- 

But Al is kind of weird now.

It’s  _ not  _ that it bothers her. She’s just… reasonably concerned, is all. Al always had some weird quirks when they were kids. Edward’s quirks were loud, in your face, and angry, so Al’s were generally brushed over. He might spend more time than normal sitting there doing nothing, off in his own head, and he might make a face and get exhausted quickly at parties… but he  _ is  _ the shy Elric. And at least he isn’t the one exhausting the whole party, or making it impossible for anyone  _ else  _ to go off in their own head. 

The thing is, Al thinks that he’s so particular about things now and gets so easily overwhelmed because he spent so long in the armor. That he just has to re-acclimate and he’ll be okay. He thinks that he’s anxious and easily pushed to tears because he spent years without having to manage adrenaline or tear glands. And Winry’s not debating that he’s easy to freak out and really,  _ really _ easy to make cry. She’s not even debating that he doesn’t have the same tolerance as he used to - Al as a kid had been upset a lot and said or showed nothing even more.

She’s just… she doesn’t think it’s because of the armor. Not entirely. And she brings up Ed, and Al says,  _ not yet, not until I’m ready,  _ but Winry doesn’t think he’ll  _ ever _ be ready. Not if he defines it by ‘able to act normal.’ They’re Elrics. They’re not normal, and that’s what she fucking likes about them. They might tease her for being obsessed with automail, but they’re just as obsessed with alchemy. They might realize that she’s kind of violent and bad at using her words until she’s already sobbing, but they think she’s  _ emotionally intelligent  _ because compared to them she almost is. 

They’re Elrics, and she’s Winry, and they’re supposed to be weird. It’s supposed to be  _ okay _ that they’re weird. Because if they’re not allowed to be weird, if they’re trying to be normal, then what does that mean for her? She’s already as normal as she can be, and it’s exhausting, and sometimes she just has to go sit somewhere and rock back and forth a while, and did she mention she’s  _ really, really, incredibly bad at it? _

***

Al feeds the chickens. The Rockbells had never had chickens while they were growing up, but he’d always wanted them. He likes the way they move, their feathers and their simplicity. He likes the way they always want the same things, the way the routines never change too much. 

Sometimes he thinks things were easier in the armor. He’d thought he’d go to Xing and get to know Mei properly, after he recovered, but he doesn’t like traveling very much anymore. He didn’t like traveling even as a kid. To reach Teacher, there were trains. Days of trains that blended one into another, rattling windows and scratchy booths and stale air. When they reached Dublith, his head was empty and pulsing hysterically at the same time. Trying to put together enough words to order a sandwich in the station was impossible.

Ed had taken care of it then, even though he had barely been doing better - just older. Just determined enough to take care of someone else. It didn’t stay that way, of course. Over the years trains seemed to take on a sense of safety for his older brother. Routine, predictable, the same things to grumble over every time, the reassuring clockwork schedule of transport. They thought to make their code in the form of train schedules, but decided it would be too easily decipherable, and maybe too obviously a code. Instead they used it as a decoy and a hobby, marking when the trains arrived versus when they were supposed to on the schedules. Stuff like that. 

He misses his brother, a deep and guilty ache. Bringing him back with the Philosopher’s Stone was wrong. It brought him  _ back _ wrong, mucked up the connections to soul and body somehow, tied him too closely into his own flesh. Everything is loud, and bright, and he can’t let Ed know what he did until he knows how to fix it. Al being angry at Ed won’t kill him. 

Ed knowing that he brought Al back wrong, that he killed their father just to fuck it all up again-

Al won’t be responsible for that. 

So he feeds the chickens, and does small jobs around the house - sorts Winry’s bolts and tools, keeps track of the money, cleans, cooks, and make sure she eats and drinks enough. All the things she can’t seem to keep in her head because it’s stuffed too full of automail schematics, and all the simple things with simple predictable outcomes. 

***

Roy and Riza don’t call Gracia right away. She may have been named for her gracious spirit, but there are limits, and waking up a widow and her child extremely early in the morning to question her over how she got over her husband’s death? That’s almost definitely outside the limits. Instead, Riza sets up a type of bed on the floor in front of the couch, and Roy sets up one behind it. 

It’s logical, to make sure Ed doesn’t sneak off while they sleep. However, that their first instinct is to bodily trap him in the house is a good indicator of why they need Gracia’s help. 

Sleep isn’t fitful, because their bodies know better than to waste precious hours. It is light, because their bodies also know better than to sleep deeply. Roy wakes up several times when someone breathes too loudly in their sleep, and he knows Riza does the same.

Which is why it’s all the more alarming that the couch is empty when they wake up to the sound of Roy’s alarm clock going off upstairs. 

***

It is… possible… that sneaking out isn’t the most mature thing to do. Especially since they’re just going to see him at the office in a few hours anyways. 

But there’s a difference - at the office, certain things can’t be said. Not during normal work hours. And Ed isn’t - well he’s not good at playing dumb, maybe. But he’s a fair hand at playing insolent and dismissive, and at knowing how Mustang and Hawkeye work. They won’t want the rest of the team to know, either to protect his privacy or to protect Roy. They won’t be able to put him on leave if the rest of the team doesn’t understand what’s happening, and they won’t explain it. They won’t be able to put him on leave if he stares them down with the implicit threat of explaining  _ for them,  _ in whatever goddamn words pop out of his face. Their hands are tied until they can speak to him privately, and if it’s up to him, that will be…oh…say… _ literally never. _

So Ed goes to his dorm room. He showers, brushes the knots out of his hair, pulls on his uniform haphazardly, braids his hair. Can’t do much about his puffy red eyes, but those are hardly unusual after he’s come back from a long assignment. 

It’s funny, really, the way the world clears up when he has a goal. He thinks maybe it should be harder, that maybe he shouldn’t feel like his soul is something that can be turned off and on again. There’s no exhilaration in this, though he might pretend there is. It’s just empty movements, empty planning, empty logic. Not numb, because then there would be something there for him to feel. No. Just… blissfully empty, just for a while. Focus. Clear and easy and capable. 

Fullmetal.

He picks up breakfast on the way to the office, because it’s cheap and the oatmeal is always just the right kind of bland and gritty. Every other oatmeal he’s had is slimy at worst and gloppy at best, and life’s too short to try and choke down milky sugar mucus. He grabs some salt packets and keeps walking.

No one looks at him, not more than usual. It’s early enough that everyone’s rushing to clock in or rushing to get out of the building before they’re asked to clock  _ back _ in. He loves this in between time, when no one tries to make eye contact and there’s not a spotlight of salutes as he walks the halls. When everyone is too wrapped up in their own bullshit to care about whatever rumors they’ve heard about  _ his _ . 

“Ed!” cries out a cheerful feminine voice, and Ed realizes he’s made a mistake. 

Getting here during this strange in between only protects him from those who keep regular hours. The phone operators, who work shifts that are staggered differently to prevent the loss of any urgent messages during shift turnover, are in the middle of their work day. They’re peppy. They’re conscious. And Anne, at least, is delusional.

“Hey!” she says, much closer now, eyes and smile bright. She’s done something with her hair, made it poofier and brighter. Ed knows the appropriate thing to do would be to compliment it. 

“Your hair is…interesting,” he says. He tries to inject a tone of disdain in. Her face crumples, just a bit, and he feels like an asshole. 

Better to feel like an asshole than lead her on, though. 

Anne, never one to respond logically in the face of a personal attack, boots and rallies quickly. “Oh, thanks! High praise from a state alchemist, to have something about me called interesting.”

_Is it?!_ _Is it really?! Because there’s only so many ways I can imply you look like shit before I have to start saying it out loud, Anne, and I’m not strong enough for that! I’m a total bastard! I treat you like shit!! You can crush on someone unattainable that’s so much better than me!_

“I’ve gotta get to work,” Ed says, gesturing expansively.

“I’m actually running a message over there. Some of the phone lines between offices are down, and since I’m the fastest I’ve been elected runner for the rest of my shift. I’ll probably see you a lot today!”

Ed pulls his face into a smile. He doesn’t worry about trying to make it look insincere. The odds of it looking anything else are minuscule. 

“That’s just fantastic, Anne,” Ed says. 

He walks as fast as he can. It’s really fast. 

Unfortunately, so is Anne.

***

“Maybe he’s at the office,” Riza proposes, but Roy can tell her heart’s not in it. It’s just that  _ they  _ need to be at the office, and there’s no time for even a cafeteria breakfast. If he’s not at the office on time, then they’ll send out a messenger. If the messenger comes back empty handed, they’ll send out a full search party.

Roy just nods. He’s in his uniform, and it’s as pristine as it ever gets, but he feels like shit and he looks like it. To say he didn't sleep well would be an… understatement. The past… not even 24 hours have scooped his soul out, played kickball with it, then stuffed it back in all the wrong places. He feels open and raw and numb all at the same time.

Failure has never agreed well with him. It’s truly a wonder of what some might call human resiliency that he isn’t working in Aunt Chris’ bar right now. 

Sometimes that’s where his head goes, in times like these. He puts on his shoes, and in trying to not think about recent emotional devastation, he thinks about how  _ good  _ he would have been at prostitution. If he’d never gone into the military, thousands would have died in a way that  _ wasn’t  _ burning to death, and hundreds would have gotten truly stellar blowjobs. As it is, the number of people having received a Mustang blowjob is barely a dozen. It’s a goddamn waste of talent, is what it is. 

But instead of filling in the resignation paperwork, marking down ‘family business’ under the future career plans, he’s going to go to work and do paperwork that will hopefully lead to years more in the military. 

He’s not quite sure where everything went wrong. Probably when he thought he could do ‘better’ than his Aunt, could get a job that wasn’t ‘degrading’ or ‘immoral’. He didn’t say it out loud, not at 15 or 17 or 19, but he’d thought it. 

Ah, sweet irony.

***

Ed doesn’t look up when he hears the door open. He knows who will be arriving - they’d cut it close, rumors will probably fly about them arriving together. Who knows if they’d even thought of that, they’d probably been pacing a hole in the floorboards over  _ him _ this morning. But he supposes if rumors are going to fly about Roy and a blond subordinate spending the night together, it’s better this than the truth.

Anne is camped out in the empty desk beside him, waiting for Breda to finish up writing a response. Ed is seriously thinking about dumping a bunch of his shit in it before she can speed walk back. Jean’s got this goddamn look in his eye, and Ed just  _ knows _ that the  _ second _ she leaves the room-

It’s been a long morning, and Jean’s only been here for ten minutes of it. It’s probably not going to get any better.

There’s a sharp gasp from the doorway when they catch sight of him, and Ed forces himself not to turn. His shoulders tense anyways, because he knows the tenor and the feel of that gasp, and it’s not Riza’s. 

_ Nope, nope, nope, not thinking about that, not thinking about that- _

“Cutting it close, Mustang?” Ed drawls, flopping back in his chair and letting it turn a little. “Did Hawkeye have to drag you out of bed?”

“No,” Roy says stiffly, and - goddamnit. Not the Roy voice, a pitch and tenor that shouldn’t exist in this building, in this context. Not vulnerable, not weak, but not impregnable and unquestionable. A voice that invites discussion instead of demanding action. 

_ Pull it the fuck together, Mustang, we’re in goddamn public. _

Ed spins his chair most of the way around, hitting Anne in the face with his braid as he does. It wasn’t intentional, but he doesn’t apologize either. Multi-tasking genius, that’s him.

“Yeah, I can see she obviously dragged you out of a  _ ditch,” _ Ed rolls his eyes. His heart isn’t in it, the catch in his voice too obvious. It’s - it’s harder than he would have expected. To blow off the way Roy looks. 

He looks like shit, is the thing. His eyes are as red rimmed and bloodshot as Ed’s own, but bruised underneath. His entire face looks off, actually, and that’s when Ed realizes what’s missing - the bastard didn’t do his makeup. He never wears much, just enough to smoothe out the dark circles under his eyes and cover up any small blemishes, but it’s enough. It’s noticeable. His hair is equally untended, truly sleep mussed rather than artfully tousled. The uniform is impeccable and every inch of it Mustang, but the man stuffed into it looks like a crude facsimile. A ventriloquist’s puppet doing an impression. 

It doesn’t help that Roy doesn’t respond to the quip, just presses his lips together into a thin white line and goes into his office. The controlled and quiet  _ click _ the door makes when he shuts it behind him is worse than if he’d slammed it. 

“Wow,” Jean whistles. “Is he alright?”

Ed can’t manage to drag his eyes away even when Hawkeye speaks. He honestly hadn’t watched her enter - just assumed they’d be there together, from the paired footsteps. Her voice sounds normal, even tempered, unruffled.

“As far as I understand, it’s just a minor personal setback. And it definitely won’t interfere with  _ his _ paperwork, so I don’t see how discussing it should interfere with  _ ours _ .”

Damn. Smooth transition from Riza, establishing normalcy and a complete lack of sympathy for her CO at the same time. Which implies that it’s something silly and personal she doesn’t approve of - such as a girl. A connection that will shut Jean up for sure  _ and  _ put him in a good mood, since Roy’s last known liaison was an ex of his.

At least Ed’s got one ally to maintaining a professional work environment in this whole mess. 

***

Roy sits down at his desk, each movement controlled and each breath measured. There’s static in his nerves, small electric shocks that are more distracting than uncomfortable. His hands are shaking, possibly too badly to hold a pen. He needs to eat, probably. He should have slept more, definitely. He should have expected Ed to be sitting in the office,  _ absolutely _ .

He’s angry. 

He doesn’t have the right to be angry.

He’s  _ angry. _

But he can’t be, because anger is not productive, and anger is buzzing in his veins like lightning and pricking at his eyes like tears, and-

Riza opens the door. The world jerks, and she’s walking towards him, mug in her hand. The world jerks again, and it’s in front of him.

“Drink,” she orders. 

Roy does, chugging mindlessly. He pauses for breath and inspects it. “Milk?”

“I thought you would need the calories,” Riza says. The authoritative tone is gone, replaced with the verbal equivalent of a shrug. 

Roy chugs the rest, and the world stops shaking quite so badly. 

Riza nods approvingly, and gives a crisp salute. “I’ll have breakfast delivered shortly.” 

She’s almost out the door when Roy gets the words together in the right order. “You know, you’d think we’d know better than to underestimate him by now.” 

Her shoulders go tight, her hand tightening on the door handle. “In all honesty sir, I think I overestimated him.”

“What do you mean?”

Riza sighs. “I think you might be too close to the issue to understand entirely, sir, but Edward isn’t fine. He’s just pretending very hard to be, until we leave him alone. And I wouldn’t call that progress.”

Roy blinks. He… hadn’t thought about it like that. 

“Sir,” Riza says one final time, and leaves the room, the door clicking shut quietly behind her. 

***

Gracia finishes ushering Elysia out the door and to school. She makes the walk with friends now, no longer eager to cling to her mother’s skirts. It’s bittersweet, this independence. Gracia knows she  _ should _ welcome it, nurture it, and so she  _ does. _

But she can’t help but feel like there’s a ticking clock over her head, counting down to when she loses the last piece of Maes. And that’s not how she should see her daughter, how anyone should see their child, but-

The phone rings. 

For a wild moment, she considers just letting it ring until whoever is on the other side hangs up, leaves her alone in her miserable, limited existence. She’d always been so determined to not let a man rule her life, and she’d been so  _ successful _ . Right up until it was the ghost of a man instead. 

But she pushes the thoughts down, as she always does. She picks up the phone, she smiles as warmly as she can so that her voice will be honey sweet, and says, “Hello?”

"Gracia?”

Ah. The other man who haunts her memories, if in a different way. She used to jokingly refer to Roy as  _ the other man, _ right up until she realized how close to the truth it was. She still isn’t one hundred percent certain what occurred between Roy Mustang and her husband, but it’s not for lack of ability. She doesn’t  _ want _ to know. Her husband had belonged to Roy for longer than he’d belonged to her, had died for Roy, and had been buried not as a husband and father but as a member of Roy’s military. Roy had stood over her husband’s grave and cried, dressed in the same uniform as Maes was buried in, tied to him closer in death and life than she had ever been.

She doesn’t want to resent Roy, doesn’t think she does. But it’s difficult, when he clearly resents himself for his part in Maes’ death. There’s only so many times she can swallow her spite for the sake of a dead man if he won’t stop  _ apologizing, _ making her choose over and over to  _ absolve _ him. That he never says the words out loud doesn’t make it any easier not to hear them.

“Roy? Is everything alright?”

If he’s calling her to warn her about another revolution, she will - she’ll do  _ something. _

“Yes. It’s… I need to talk to you in person, sometime soon. Nothing to worry about, I promise.” 

Well, darned if she isn’t worrying anyways, already nervously picking at the embroidery on her sleeve. 

“Alright. You know our schedule. Tomorrow night? Elysia’s school is doing a lock in.” 

“Alright, sounds good.” His voice immediately sounds lighter, and Gracia despises him for that. That he thinks he can come to her for help. That she gives it to him, every time, helpless to do anything but help.

Mostly, she despises everything living and breathing and forcing her to keep moving when all she wants is to  _ wallow _ . 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you then!” The false smile is growing strained. She needs to hang up. 

“See you then,” Roy agrees, and the line goes dead. 

Gracia sets the phone into its rocker, and lets the smile drop. Lets it all drop, all the faces she wears to be Gracia Hughes, gracious widow and graceful mother. For just a moment, she lets herself stand there, shaking with direction-less fury - fury with too many directions and no erasable source.

Then she breathes, glides into the kitchen, ties the silk ribbons of her apron into a neat bow, and kneads the hell out of some dough. 

***

So here comes the uncomfortable, inevitable, irresistible end: 

Clocking out.

Ed made it through the day. He made it through Anne and all the horrible, awful shit he said to her, which got admittedly over the top when her coworker was late to relieve her. He’s pretty sure she was hiding tears by the end there, but like. 

Maybe don’t relentlessly fish for compliments if you know you’re going to get an insult? 

No. No that’s a shitty way of thinking and he’s not going to indulge it, even if he  _ feels _ shitty. It’s not  _ her _ fault he’s broken. Any normal guy would be thrilled at her attentions. Any normal guy would have made good on them a long time ago. She’s smart enough to know he’s the kind of guy who will deny himself a good thing, push it away and break it and burn it rather than risk a second of happiness. It’s not her fault that she believes she could bring him happiness. She  _ should _ be able to bring him happiness. From her point of view, knowing nothing about him but what he lets everyone see and what everyone says, it must seem a tolerable risk for the possible reward. 

Havoc’s look of confusion at the way he was treating her steadily turned into a look of disgusted revulsion, a reaction mirrored by the rest of the team. They’re used to seeing him be rude,  _ accidentally. _ They’re  _ not _ used to seeing him use everything he ever learned about tact to imply to a girl deeply in love with him that she’s worth less than the dog shit clinging to his boot sole. Ed hates that they see this side of him. That this side of him is covering up something that wouldn’t only lose their respect but also very likely endanger his life. That he’s actually  _ worse  _ than what they’ve seen today, what they’ve already been disgusted by. 

It’s more acceptable to shred this girl’s heart while she tries to put on a brave face than it is to just tell her she’s never gonna  _ be _ his type, that it’s not  _ possible, _ and he really  _ really  _ fuckin hates that. He hates that  _ so much _ . 

The clock is at 4:45 pm, and the message runner who replaced Anne - Ronnie, Ed thinks her name is - has left. She didn’t care for Ed, and took a magnificent tone and attitude in response to literally any request. Ed can’t blame her and actually thinks pretty highly of her. Getting Anne’s side of the story and deciding he’s the most despicable officer to ever reach Lieutenant Colonel is the kind of aggressive attention he likes in a woman. It makes his job of convincing them he’s not admirable so much goddamn easier. 

Havoc is chewing on a cigarette, clearly working his way up to saying something to him. It’d actually not be a bad distraction - if Havoc gets it out now, the ensuing argument can swallow all of pub night. Neither Mustang or Hawkeye will be able to separate him from the men, and if he’s careful about the cards he plays then it won’t end with them being able to conveniently ‘split them up until they can play nice’. Ed wraps up the last of his paperwork - no use starting a new set of forms or translation now, with fifteen minutes to go - and then leans back in his seat and makes a subtle ‘bring it on’ gesture.

“Boss,” Havoc says. The syllable is weighted, tense. “What the  _ hell-” _

“Personal talk is what, boys?” Riza’s voice pierces the air, the bell like tone taking on the alarming frequency of a fire alarm.

“Never on the clock,” they dutifully chorus. 

Now all the guys are glaring at him, even Falman.

_ Fucking fantastic, _ Ed thinks, and means it. He has to bite down the grin to a smirk, because it feels more euphoric than insolent.

***

Pub Night.

A classic tradition perpetuated in a not so classy way.

Team Mustang - which has regone several different branding attempts over the years but remains stubbornly tied to the original name, even if it now includes half of the Elric brothers - treads down to their favorite pub. It’s just far enough from Central Command that it’s easier to take a car, but the walk itself is useful. It passes by the dorms, and by everyone’s house but Roy’s. One by one they’ll peel off to change into their civvies, drop off their shit, pick up different shit, then come back out to rejoin the group. Roy keeps a change of clothes at Riza’s for the occasion.

Ed is fastest at changing, and his dorm room is on the first floor, so he usually nips in and then runs a bit to catch up with them. This means, of course, that Riza or Roy could decide to stay behind or otherwise lag behind the main party to accost him while he changes. But he didn’t get the rank of Lieutenant Colonel for nothing (he got it for being the most precocious twelve year old to ever see an array) so he’s got a few counter strategies.

None of them end up being necessary. When he ducks back out, the group is a little farther ahead than they’d usually be, as if they’re deliberately walking faster. Nobody does a cold shoulder like a soldier, he’s sure that’s a saying. And until everyone’s out of uniform, they’re all soldiers, and most of them are ranked lower than him. It wouldn’t do to have them screaming at him until he’s in his civvies and they’re at their favorite pub. Far enough away from Command to not be full of soldiers, generally anti-government but apolitical enough that they’re recognized first and foremost as regular spenders and not as dogs of the Fuhrer.

(Not that things have been so bad, lately, with this new Fuhrer. Being genuinely pro-government isn’t an immediate red flag the way it used to be.)

He sighs. He’d definitely pissed them the fuck off. He’s - well, it was necessary. But explaining  _ why _ is going to take some doing. He supposes honesty might be the best policy, but it can only explain so much. And if Anne was at all an option, then he could just… it might be kinder to take her on a date or two. Give her a chance. It seems like the obvious advice, even if ‘no’ is a complete sentence and all that. Not this absolute twattery that he’s doing.

But Anne’s not an option. And he can’t - he  _ can’t _ do that. He doesn’t have much integrity left, but that’s a kind of dirty he doesn’t want to feel, doesn’t want to do. Not after Winry.

***

They reach the pub. There’s been a several person buffer between Roy and Ed all day and all night, but it’s still…it’s hard for Roy. To be on the sidewalk here, outside of this place, funneling single file into the familiar door, but not feeling the familiar comfort that’s supposed to accompany the action.

The glimpses he caught of Ed on the way over hadn’t been reassuring, the younger man nearly vibrating with nervous energy. It made more sense when Riza gave him a quick rundown of the day - Roy had been too distracted to keep close tabs on his subordinates, much less manage the morale disaster of that message runner. He knows who Riza’s referencing, because he’d seen the girl following Ed around like a puppy, and he’d also seen her flinch more than once whenever Ed opened his mouth. He’d assumed that it was Ed’s usual inability to parse social signals, not that Ed was kicking her.

So Ed looks nervous, but it’s not about him. In fact, whenever Ed’s eyes glance over him there’s this very deliberate sort of blankness. Not a deliberate blankness as in lack of emotion, but as in he’s deliberately thinking about nothing as hard as he can. So at least Riza is probably right on one point: he’s not unaffected. He’s extremely affected, and shutting it down until - until what?

Until Roy forgets? Accepts defeat? Loses interest?

He doesn’t know. He can’t even begin to guess. 

“I’ll get the first round,” Ed blurts out as soon as they’re all inside. “You guys grab a booth, I’ll be right back.”

That’s not going to be nearly enough to get him out of explaining himself, but Roy guesses as far as opening gambits go, it’s not a bad one.

“Alright, the big one by the window is open,” Riza says, and moves towards it. The rest of them follow, and when they’re seated the dam breaks.

“What the fuck  _ was  _ that today?” Havoc demands, and there’s a ready chorus of agreeing winces and groans. 

Roy only half listens to the conversation that ensues. From here he can see the side of Ed’s face, and it probably says something unsavory about Roy that he knows the lines of Ed’s body well enough to read the feeling in them. Or maybe it says something unflattering about Ed’s ability to lie. Either way Ed’s no longer nervous, not the way he was on the walk here. He’s triumphant, exhilarated for the night that’s about to come. Had he misread Ed’s nerves, somehow mistaking anticipation for anxiety? His reaction is completely out of place, except…

He thinks about what Riza had said, earlier. That she’d overestimated Edward in thinking that he was breaking down. He can see now how she’d come to that conclusion. This isn’t the breakdown,  _ last night _ was. Or last night was the aftermath of a breakdown. 

Roy had been so sure that this was a new pattern of behavior, that this was somehow revolutionary and undiscovered ground for Edward. And maybe, definitely, some of it was. The confessions, the explanations, he can’t imagine those have happened before. But watching Ed now, all he can think is that Ed seems  _ normal.  _ That he’s seen him this way so many times before, after a harsh mission. Indominatable, vibrant, untouchable and radiant. 

Edward hadn’t been on the  _ edge _ of a breakdown, the way Roy had assumed when filling out the leave paperwork months ago. He doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe what this pattern of behavior is, but it’s not an irretrievable collapse, a disaster. It’s practically a routine. He’s not broken, not anymore than he was  _ before _ . 

He’s the same as he ever is.

And Roy is… 

Roy isn’t the same. He can’t be, he can  _ never _ be. 

Roy is sitting in the big booth, the one large enough to fit several large soldiers and a few undersized ones. It’s Pub Night, and the air is filled with complaints about a superior officer that would not be entertained in any other atmosphere. Edward is getting the first round of drinks, as he often does, entire body filled with the joy of being alive, as it often is. Edward has gotten the beers, and is navigating the full tray of pint glasses with impeccable precision through a crowded room.

Roy is sitting in the big booth, the one large enough to fit all the people he has sworn to protect, and who have sworn to protect him. Edward is not sitting in it, although he will join them soon. For all anyone else sees, he will have always been there, in the circle of people who Roy keeps safe. His short journey to pick up drinks for them will be just that - a short and inconsequential journey, and at the end of it, drinks. 

Roy watches Ed sit down. Roy watches Ed complete his mission, and be welcomed back to the fold. He watches the men start to lay into him, demanding answers for Ed’s conduct that day. He sees himself, sitting in a desk while Ed gives a sparsely detailed field report, demanding answers. Ed’s eyes flash angrily at something Havoc insinuates and Roy sees yet another Ed: a child with two limbs and two eyes full of fire, a child who he picked up by the shirt collar and screamed at.

He picks up his beer, but can’t quite drink, can’t quite work out the mechanics of it. All those years. All those years, and he told himself:  _ look at the fire in his eyes, look at the smile on his face, surely if what I had done was terrible enough to break a child he would be broken. _ All those years, Ed in alleys and cheap hotels and on trains and in all the places suffering so deeply he could justify sending an Amestrian Major to deal with them. All those years, and he said to himself,  _ certainly I would see, if something was wrong. _

To say he was wrong would be a gross understatement. To say he was arrogant would be banal. To make amends is a task he cannot even conceive of, the depths of his transgressions overwhelming.

It’s Pub Night, and he has a beer in his hand. He knows what he wants to do - what he usually does, when confronted with the depths of his own inadequacy and immorality. It would be easy. It feels so easy that it’s nearly inevitable, that he feels disconnected from the hand raising the beer to his mouth. 

It’s so easy to be him, to do the things he does, and yet so difficult to live with any of it. 

“Getting a slow start tonight, eh, Roy?” Havoc asks companionably, jostling Roy’s shoulder. He’s standing outside the booth now, on his way to get another round. Everyone is considerably more relaxed, the situation beginning to smooth over with the help of beer and open communication. “You want me to get you another, or…”

Roy looks at the half empty beer in his hand. It’s easy to be him, and do the things he does.

“I  _ must  _ be getting on in years,” he sighs dramatically, trailing a finger through the condensation on the glass. “I’m afraid I simply can’t keep up anymore.”

“Don’t think that gets you out of buying your round,” Ed says from across the table, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. 

Roy smiles. If it is sickly, no one comments. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you down, Edward.”

***

“Al,” Winry says. 

Al hates that tone. He hates the look on her face, and he hates the words he knows are going to follow. It’s as much a part of their routine now as the chickens, as dinner and bookkeeping and ordering parts. This bit of after dinner theater as they sit on the porch if the weather’s nice, or in the parlor if the weather’s bad.

“Winry,” he seethes, careful not to let his voice rise. Getting too angry before she’s even given him a reason to won’t help anything. It never proves his point, which is that he’s not ready to see Ed. It just makes her think that he needs him even more, which is an insanely illogical conclusion, and he just  _ doesn’t understand _ how she can possibly reach it day after day. 

“You should call your brother,” she says.

_ “You  _ should call my brother,” he argues. The script is in full motion. He can show some anger now, some of the frustration that they have to go through this  _ every single night. _

“I can’t! Al, I  _ can’t  _ lie. And I shouldn’t be the one to call him in the first place, it’s  _ you _ .”

“And why should it be me? We left things on bad terms, Winry. Or not good ones, anyways. I said I needed space for a little while, and it’s been  _ years _ . I can’t just-”

Winry breaks the script, dropping her face into her hands and giving a screech so piercing that Al’s glad they’ve had this argument in the house tonight. “Al. Look. There’s- I can’t tell you. Exactly what happened when Ed and I… but it wasn’t  _ good terms. _ Okay? I know you think that what you did was… but what I said to him was so much worse.”

Al thinks about getting up from the rocking chair and sitting by her on the couch. He doesn’t know though, and it should be easier to comfort her. To help stop the choked tears he can hear in her voice. He’s only known her his  _ entire  _ life, and she’s been a crybaby approximately all of it. 

“Look,” Winry pries her face out of her hands. She’d been pressing too hard, Al can see the places her fingers dug into her skin. “Al. If I have to make that call, I will. I can lie, or at least well enough to trick that alchemy obsessed idiot. But I can’t keep having this conversation. And I can’t keep thinking about him, all alone in Central, thinking neither of us love him anymore. I can’t keep letting him think that, okay?

“Our goodbye, it went so bad. So unbelievably bad. And at first I was just happy, to not have him be around, to not have to see him everywhere while I tried to figure things out. But I can’t  _ stop _ seeing him everywhere. And Granny is,” Winry stops there. She doesn’t need to finish.

Al can’t look at her, pushes the ground with one foot and lets the chair rock him. “He knows I don’t hate him. He thinks I’m just… angry. Upset.”

Winry snatches up a tissue and blows her nose into it. It takes a lot longer than Al thinks it ought to, and when it’s over the silence hangs between them like a tangible thread. Al doesn’t want to cut it, not when it will destroy this comfortable silence they’ve built. This comfortable  _ life _ they’ve built, outside of Ed and far away from him and all the things he reminds Al of. All of his mistakes, all of his failures, all of his regrets written on his brother’s skin and soul. The same way Ed’s written on him.

He sighs, kicks the rocking up a notch. Outside it’s raining, but not a proper rain. Not the kind of rain that hammers away on the roof, that can lull you to sleep. The kind of rain that’s more a fog, creeping and cold, scattered drizzles that soak you to the bone in ten seconds and then leave you back in the fog again just as quick. It seems like a good enough metaphor, for something. It seems like he’s trying to make a metaphor out of perfectly ordinary weather instead of facing the truth. 

“I’m not going to let us keep avoiding this,” Winry says. She’s not crying anymore, just a bit damp. Just like the rain outside, and crap, he’s doing the metaphor thing.  _ Again _ . “Granny doesn’t have that kind of time, Alphonse. And I think we both know that Ed could think you hate him. If there’s anything Ed can do, it’s convince himself of something incredibly dumb.”

Al snorts, and reaches up to tug on his hair. It’s getting a bit long again. Almost time for a cut. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. I’ll call him. He never uses his vacation time, I bet he has more than enough to come and stay until… until.”

“Yeah,” Winry gives a tentative smile, and suddenly it doesn’t seem like something worth overthinking to stand up and sit beside her. He does it, just like that, and just like that, she burrows into his side. Careful, because she knows he can’t stand the way the buttons of her overalls feel, but firm. 

It feels good. It feels like belonging, like safety. He puts his arm around her shoulder, and she makes a little noise, one of the ones that make his chest go warm and tight.

He hopes that whatever Ed’s been doing, whatever dumb choices that he’s been making, he has someone to cuddle into his side like Winry. ‘Cuddling’ hadn’t been very high on his list of things to do when whole. It should have been first. And Ed… Ed hadn’t even had a list of what to do when Al got his body back. 

“Winry?” Al’s voice trembles. 

“Al?” Winry slides an arm behind his back, fisting her hand in the end of his shirt.

“I think we might have really fucked up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god once again the biggest shout out to erinpenwrites. they elevate this from a first draft to something i am deeply proud of. because of them i work on every chapter not just until i'm sick of looking at it, but until i'm excited to see it again. any remaining mistakes are my own, and probably purposefully kept despite their best advice. :)
> 
> also a huge shout out to mellomailbox, who i've been hanging out with this holiday season. her cheerleading and enthusiasm is infectious, and her words of  
"OMG THE WORDS STOP  
EVAN  
WHERES THE REST"  
is why I finally did the last rounds of edits on posting Chapter 2 so i can get on with Chapter 3. 
> 
> and A MASSIVE, ENORMOUS, GIGANTIC thank you to everyone who's commented - it means the world to me. and thank you to everyone who kudos! i see your names, i've read some of yall's fics, and i'm DYING that you read and liked my stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> find ang3lba3 on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cryingiscooltm)


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